Pericles
by meldahlie
Summary: "I dare do all that may become a man; who dares do more is none." A wizarding chess piece carver and Lord Voldemort's first rise to power – the prequel tragedy to "Pawns".
1. No one thinks of winter

_**Disclaimer:** Neither Harry Potter nor Macbeth are mine – although I used to walk past Shakespeare's birthplace to get to the library to borrow J.K.R 's books!_

1. No-one thinks of winter when the grass is green 

"It is very nice," said the grey-haired man, taking a couple of the chess pieces out of the box and setting them down at random, "to find something _real, pure._ Not any of these cheap enchanted muggle things."

Pericles Sutch watched the pieces moving on the chess board with the satisfied smile of a craftsman. "They are certainly real. Solid wand wood, hand-carved and individually charmed. They won't fail you – our chess sets last."

"Won't fail..." His customer lifted out one of the black knights more deliberately. "I could do with more like that..." he murmured.

"More?" Pericles raised his eyebrows in surprise. It was usually only the likes of Scrivenshafts the stationers, or Pullmann & Sparkes the Christmas cracker makers, who ordered multiple sets – and always in the cheaper woods and sizes. A six-inch mahogany set with brass trim like this one was a sizeable investment – albeit an investment that had come at a very convenient time for himself.

His second child had been born three months ago – an altogether adorable baby daughter – but a daughter to follow a son meant a great many things that couldn't be passed on – a family with two children seemed to be far more than twice as expensive as a family with one. And then there was his wife – Magdalena had been very ill giving birth to Antigone; and had spent nearly two of the months since in St. Mungo's – whose billing department had no qualms sending rude letters about the overdue hospital bill at the same time as their Healers sent insistent letters that his wife was far from strong, and needed rest and hired help about the house.

Pericles' trade of carving chess sets had seemed woefully inadequate to meet this until the mahogany order had come. But more of them?

The man seemed to close up with a snap. "They are completely satisfactory," he said briskly, setting the three pieces back into the matching mahogany box and shutting the lid firmly. "Thank you for allowing me to call to inspect them."

The two men rose, and Pericles drew a sheet of parchment from the workbench drawer. "The price will be as quoted, but I will need your details for the invoice."

"Avery," said the older man shortly, without troubling with a first name. "My current _lodgings_ are in Wiltshire. I travel at present, you see," he added, as Pericles paused for a moment and then wrote _'Avery, Wiltshire'_ because nothing else seemed to be forthcoming. "It can make it rather tricky, to get one's owl post to keep up – that is why I wanted to call and collect the pieces myself."

"I see," said Pericles politely. A call-and-collect job was fairly unusual, but when it was the number of Galleons written on the invoice he now held out, you didn't ask too many questions.

Avery took the parchment and glanced down it. "Politics, if you're wondering what I travel for. A line of business which requires a great many contacts – yet is always cutting one off from them. Which reminds me–"

_Never mind reminding – would you please PAY...? _

"Yes?" Pericles prompted into the silence.

Avery looked at him with a smile. "Do you know a man named Wilkins?"

Wilkins? Pericles stared at Avery. He knew a man named Wilkins rather well – in a business sense.

Wilkins was a trader, in exotic wand woods and magical metals and rare potions ingredients and practically anything else exotic and small enough to be brought into the country "no questions asked."

Wilkins was the man who had supplied this mahogany.

Wilkins was the man who was currently rivalling St Mungo's in sending owls demanding payment.

"I know _one_ man named Wilkins," he replied guardedly. "Whether he's the _same_ one..."

"The petty trader?"

Petty – that was the word for Wilkins; inclined to quibble over every last Knut on the bill, and make a fuss about who paid for the drinks in the 'Dragon & Warlock' pub where they always met. "Yes."

"Likely to see him soon?"

_He could __N__ot be rude – the man hadn't paid yet – but seemed to __be rather too well aware of Pericles' own business. Mind Your Own Business was the rule of a Sutch._

"Probably," he tossed out coolly.

"Then could I ask a favour...?" Avery's voice became slightly less patronising – and more, he finally pulled a rather full money bag out of his robe pocket. "Would you give him a letter from me – I'm finding it hard to get in touch with him."

A very neat envelope was held out, marked merely _'Wilkins.' _Pericles put one hand out uncertainly. "I..."

"Ah!" Avery set the money bag down on the work bench, and rummaged hastily in another pocket. "It will probably cost you something to find Wilkins, won't it? Towards expenses..."

Another beaming smile – and there was a Galleon in Pericles' hand along with the letter. He looked up at Avery. "I doubt even if I sent it on by Recorded-delivery same-hour owl post I could manage to spend that much delivering it."

Avery waved one hand dismissively. "Better to be over than short. We can settle the change another time. Just tell Wilkins the letter's from "Avery" – he'll be expecting it. And I must be going."

He picked up his chess set and took down a great black cloak as Pericles opened the workroom door, and the two men crossed the hall to the front door. It stuck slightly – Pericles wrenched it back desperately. He had no desire to have to cast an unsticking charm to get his own front door to open in front of a well-paying customer. Somewhere beyond the hedge there was a squeal of car brakes and the angry beeping of a car horn.

"Muggles..." said Avery with refined distaste, "are always so _Noisy..."_

_That he considered it to be a most insalubrious neighbourhood to live in could not have been plainer if he had stated it. _

"The house is rented," said Pericles shortly. "My father owns property off Diagon Alley, but he's not really of an age to be compatible with a young family."

"I see." Avery nodded sympathetically. "Good houses are hard to get in our world, aren't they? The muggles have plenty, but we don't. The Ministry – or _somebody_ – needs to do something about it." He nodded again, and raised his left hand in farewell. "I thank you for your hospitality. I dare say we will meet again."

And Avery was gone.

Pericles looked down at the letter he had left. _'Wilkins'._ It was not a heavy letter; the Galleon weighed heavier in his hand. Rather too heavy – a whole Galleon to pass on a letter weighed very heavily of charity. But still – Pericles shut the front door and went back into his workroom – he had to see Wilkins to finally pay him his share of that very nicely heavy money bag.

It would not hurt to pass the letter on. He could always send the whole Galleon back to Avery in Wiltshire.

~:~:~

_How far is St. Helena from a little child at play?_

_Why do you want to wander there with all the world between?  
_

_Oh Mother, call your son to you or else he'll run away.  
_

_(No one thinks of winter when the grass is green!)  
_

_**~:~:~**  
_

**_A/N: It's not festive, and it's going to get SAD – but Merry Christmas, everyone!_**


	2. If you take the first step

2. If you take the first step, you will take the last

The 'Dragon & Warlock' was not a salubrious pub. Strictly, it was on Diagon Alley. The squeaky front door with its faded paint and grubby mosaic-tiled porch opened onto Diagon. But few patrons came and went that way.

The 'Dragon & Warlock' was a corner building: the street sign for Diagon Alley hung on one wall; ninety degrees round the corner was the matching sign for Knockturn Alley. A well-oiled side door up a short flight of brick steps admitted most of the regulars.

It was this side door that was the reason most of the business meetings of _'Sutch & Co, Wizarding Chess Makers' _ took place in the 'Dragon & Warlock.' Because, until Pericles had decided it was no place to raise a young family, the Sutches had lived on Knockturn Alley. His father Artaxerxes still stubbornly lived there, in the two-room flat at the top of the house the Sutches owned the three-hundred year lease on (172 years expired).

But there was no _reason_ in living on Knockturn Alley any longer, other than Artaxerxes' sceptical view that anything and anywhere better was "Too good" for a Sutch. Their entire business ran by owl order; the old shop premises at the bottom of their building had been bordered up for the entire of Pericles' lifetime, and that of Artaxerxes. There was no _point_ in living over the ghost of a hundred year old shop.

Pericles had ambitions with this chess-piece making trade – but they didn't involve reopening _that_ shop. Certainly not on Knockturn.

One-off owl orders were good enough for Artaxerxes, but Pericles was pushing out into a new outlet. Persuading Scrivenshafts to stock sets in Hogsmeade; getting Pullmann & Sparkes to include chess sets in their crackers – these were all moves towards the future. They might only be the cheap sets, but the child who got a small chess set in their Christmas cracker, or bought one at Hogwarts on their first Hogsmeade weekend would be back in the future for a better set. The cheap work Pericles did now would be lucrative work for his children later: _they_ were not going to have to struggle as he did to stay afloat between orders, with somebody croaking "Too good..." down their ear.

The Sutches had always been in Slytherin – but sometimes Pericles wondered how his father had got in.

Still, he was not going to blame Artaxerxes. Artaxerxes was old, tired, worn down by a lifetime of carving and penny-pinching – and he had not opposed Pericles' ideas for expanding the business. When it had come to Pericles' idea of selling up their lease and moving somewhere better, though, he _had _called Pericles a "young fool." That one rankled – slightly. Not really because of the sentiment expressed; mostly because Artaxerxes' refusal prevented Pericles from doing more than letting his share of the house and renting another, so rendering him unable to prove that it was a good idea like with the Scrivenshafts work.

But, whatever the address their business might have, or be going to have, the 'Dragon & Warlock' was always going to be the place for _'__A. Sutch & co.' _to meet their business associates. Because the sort of people who supplied magical wood did not – could not – go anywhere else. There was too great a risk of meeting someone from the Ministry, who was probably looking for them – awkward people like Aurors who might be nasty enough to arrest you before you'd even finished your drink. Pericles shrugged as he opened the side door from Knockturn into a cloud of purple tobacco smoke – once you appreciated the suppliers' difficult legal situation, you had to just mind your own business, and accept it.

The obsession with coloured tobacco smoke in the 'Dragon & Warlock' was slightly harder to just accept; but fortunately today it was only coming from one weedy little spaniel-eyed man sitting on two upturned cauldrons in the corner by the door. The central part of the room was smoke-free. Pericles collected two butter beers from the bar, and sat down to wait for Wilkins.

Petty was the perfect word for Wilkins: his first comment was to complain that his beer glass was dirty.

_This was the 'Dragon & Warlock' – what did he expect? At least the glasses didn't reek of goat like they did at the 'Hog's Head'..._

Pericles got up and went to the bar to get him a fresh one. There was no service at the 'Dragon & Warlock.' Whenever a barmaid did appear, they were, without fail, a disguised squib, hag or Auror, and never lasted very long. It was a standing joke among the regulars that you could find out which sort the barmaid was by getting too friendly: the squib would slap you, the Auror would curse you, and the hag would bite your throat out. Service had its disadvantages.

Pericles took the glass back. "No bar maid, so nothing to fear."

Wilkins grunted, and flicked open his bottle. "Did you bring the money?" he demanded.

"I did," said Pericles, attempting to keep his voice pleasant despite the man's attitude. "And a bonus – a letter from someone who's been trying to get in touch with you." He pulled the envelope out and slid it across the table. "He said his name was 'Avery,' you'd be expecting–_ hello?!"_

The envelope was snatched – a bottle clattered to the floor – the front door of the pub squealed shut behind Wilkins.

But – but – Pericles stared from the door to the suddenly empty chair before him. But – Wilkins hadn't even _touched_ his drink – hadn't collected Pericles' overdue bill– hadn't –

The few other patrons were staring too. "Whaddya put in 'is beer...?" someone yelled from a group on the far side of the room. "Gone any faster an' 'e'd 'ave splinched 'imself...!"

Raucous laughter echoed from his friends, and half-drunk suggestions of reasons for Wilkins' sudden departure began to bandy around the room: "... prune juice give 'im the _runs...?_ … vampire in 'is cushion..." Pericles got up, tossed his own butter beer back, and strode to the bar to wrangle over whether it was necessary to pay for a drink somebody hadn't even drunk.

The 'Dragon & Warlock' was _not_ a salubrious pub.

In the end, he paid half the price to the landlord, and sold the other half, with the drink itself, to the spaniel-eyed man who said he didn't care who'd run away from a drink, as long as they hadn't put anything in it.

It had been about the most unsatisfactory business meeting ever.

~:~

Pericles had assumed that he would have to arrange a fresh meeting with Wilkins. There was, after all, still the money to be paid for the mahogany. And he would use Avery's Galleon to pay for the post-office owl to do so – because on further reflection, it was definitely due to Avery's wretched letter that he was having to fix up a second meeting at all. That certainly counted as legitimate expenses, never mind his own time away from carving to go to the 'Dragon & Warlock' again.

The owl the next morning was a surprise. Wilkins made no mention of Avery's letter, or his abrupt departure; he simply stated that Pericles' bill had been reduced from thirty-six Galleons to twelve, and could be paid by owl post. He didn't even specify whether this was to be cash or an owl order.

Pericles read, and re-read, and re-read. It was … good; but – strange. Wilkins _never _took payment by owl; in fact, he always bit the Galleons to make sure they were real and not leprechaun gold before he'd take them. But – here it was, on parchment: "Twelve Galleons, to be paid by owl."

_So, that meant he had twenty-four more Galleons than he'd counted on_ – a corner of Pericles' brain began to divide those among various dire needs – _and one whole Galleon that had to be returned._

You couldn't put a Galleon in the post to such a vague address as 'Avery, Wiltshire.' Not a whole _Galleon..._ He sent a three Knut owl asking if there was a convenient time and place where Avery might meet him – "to settle the change."

~:~

The convenient place seemed to be Pericles' house. Avery arrived without prior announcement two days later.

"Did you give Wilkins the letter?" he asked before Pericles had even managed to show him into the workroom. They didn't _have_ anywhere else for entertaining well-to-do visitors; the living room and kitchen were both full of babies and clutter.

Pericles shut the door behind them. "I certainly did – he promptly took it and ran."

"Humph." Avery sat down without being asked. "Well, thank you, but that's very odd. Very, very odd."

"It was," said Pericles. "He neither dealt with my business nor had his drink. All I got was a letter next morning saying I could pay him by owl. So here's your Galleon. No expenses incurred."

"Well, that's _Very Odd_." Avery waved one hand dismissively at the Galleon. "Keep it for your inconvenience – the money's no matter. What matters is that Wilkins hasn't written to _me_. I've heard nothing – and he owes me a tidy sum of money, you see."

_If one Galleon was no matter, that had to be a fairly tidy sum..._

"Would you –" Avery paused. "You got through to him – where I hadn't. Do you think you could send him another letter for me? I – would be very much obliged."

~:~

"Are you sure Wilkins has your address?" Pericles queried after the sixth letter he had passed on had apparently produced no results again. In his experience, Wilkins could occasionally be out of touch due to "being abroad on business" – but that was only ever for a week at most. _This_ had been going on for almost two months. He had never seen the letters, the envelopes were always sealed, but if Avery was travelling, Wilkins could, just possibly, be getting a stream of frustrated post owls back with letters marked 'gone away.'

Avery, in his now usual chair on the other side of the workbench to Pericles, frowned. "I put it on the first letter..." he said slowly, "which you made sure he got. But I suppose he may have lost that... I could send it again." He stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. "The problem is, I have to be moving on again – I'm going up to Scotland, and I'll be travelling about..."

His gaze shot down off the ceiling to meet Pericles' eye: "Could I ask him to send correspondence to you, while I'm away? It would only be a packet to keep safe – otherwise I've got to trust a lodging house. I'd be obliged..."

It was impossible to say no, really – particularly because life wasn't getting any cheaper, and where Avery was "obliged," he left Galleons.

But also – Pericles found he liked Avery. In a way, Avery reminded him of his father. When you had filtered out the empty rhetoric on Avery's part, or gloomy cynicism from Artaxerxes, there was the same grey-haired, paternal attitude. With the added advantage that Avery was only too happy to talk about the future, and improvements that would be made in it – whereas Artaxerxes tended to snort, and grumble about 'too good.'

Avery did not consider aspiration for the future too good – the future was what he was working for with his politics, after all. Pericles had never really considered politics and the Ministry as having any influence on plans for the future before. On Knockturn Alley, the Ministry was either after you, if you were on the wrong side of the law, or a dead weight that did so little good it was not worth talking about, if you were a harassed trader on the right side of the law. But the way Avery talked – under the rhetoric – politics could actually change things; _would_ actually change things.

~:~

The change of address seemed to change things with Wilkins: a small parcel appeared by owl within a week, and Avery appeared by apparition-hop from his 'travelling' in Scotland the next day.

"No point in waiting and wondering," he explained when Pericles expressed surprise. "I've done quite enough of that over this business with Wilkins; and so have you – you didn't need to be burdened with a parce– _the_ _Mudblood!_"

"I beg your pardon?" said Pericles. That was a particularly rude expression, that tended to get bandied about only in the dodgiest corners of Knockturn Alley – certainly not to be heard from a respectable gentleman like Avery, who was currently staring in apparent horror into his opened parcel.

"And I beg yours, my dear chap," Avery apologised hastily, coming out of his frozen pose. "Terrible – terrible of me; but extreme provocation – extreme. The man's only sent a quarter of his bill!"

_All this hassle – and only a quarter of the money? __No wonder he'd sworn._ "I am sorry," Pericles sympathised. "I've called you here practically on a wild goose chase."

"No, no..." Avery shook his head. "It's as well you let me know; I shall have to be onto him right away. The sooner the better – may I trouble you for the corner of a desk? And ask you to get the letter off for me?"

"There is quill and ink at your disposal," said Pericles, opening the workbench drawer his entire 'office' was crammed in, "but I'm afraid there isn't an owl nearer than the post office."

"You don't _have_ an owl?"

It was only that Avery was surprised – but it sounded rather on a par with not having a roof on your house. Pericles straightened. Just for once, he was _not_ going to be made to feel inferior and hard-up in the face of Avery's middle-aged wealth. "No," he said proudly. "I have two children instead – a man has to choose his priorities for his gold."

"Indeed...!" Avery smiled at him. "_Two_ children – congratulations. I have only the one son; he is at Hogwarts now, does me proud, taking an interest in politics, already – but I quite understand about the gold they take up when small. Yes, a great deal ... indeed, I hate to think exactly how _I_ would have managed at that time without the aid of my – patron. He is a very – noble man. Working incognito, really, now... for the present... but in the same line in – politics."

He nodded, seemingly lost in thought. "So if I might just borrow your ink... thank you, thank you..."

~:~

There was a letter the next day. But it was not from Wilkins – it was from Avery:

An acquaintance of his in politics had a distant relation who bred post-owls, and furthermore, occasionally sold the retired broodys. The acquaintance in politics had been sorry to hear of the trouble Avery and Pericles had been having in getting hold of Wilkins, but had reminded Avery that post-office owls are notoriously unreliable. In order to save further trouble and expenditure, the acquaintance was quite prepared to arrange for one of the retired broodys to be sent to whoever Avery wished, at a very reduced rate.

While Avery did not wish in any way to be patronising, indeed, rather wishing to lose the money Wilkins owed him than offend Pericles, it would save himself considerable cost in post-office fees if Pericles would be willing to take the owl, for the letters to Wilkins. It would, of course, be entirely his to use between times. If Pericles was willing, he was to forward the enclosed sealed parchment to 'Patrick O'Hara, Donegal,' and the writer _"did not presume to be more than you__r obliged customer,_

_Avery."_

An owl...? _An owl...?_ Pericles stared at the letter, and at the sealed parchment, and the letter, and the sealed parchment. An owl – was something that you felt the distinct lack of when running an owl-order business, never mind it looking poor not to have one. If he had an owl, this business with Wilkins would not be so tiresome – would no longer involve taking time he could ill afford to spare going to Diagon Alley to the post-office – and would stop taking up Avery's money.

_Did an owl as a favour smack of charity? _ Pericles considered. The charity, if it was there, was not directed at him. He was helping Avery, and a friend 'in politics' had offered Avery an owl – a retired owl at that. The choice was Avery's – Pericles wasn't really in a position for saying 'Yea' or 'Nay' – and it would be very unobliging to say no. And very nice to have an owl.

The choice for going to the post-office for the last time was not a difficult one.

~:~

The owl's first errand, as a trial, was to carry the pleasantly surprising news of its existence to Artaxerxes. It returned with a note to the effect that private post owls were 'Too good' for a Sutch.

Too good, too good. Pericles dropped the note in the fire irritably. Artaxerxes was always croaking about 'too good.' Even this little rented house in the muggle neighbourhood had been described as 'too good.'

What was wrong with wanting Magdalena to have a proper house, instead of two floors above a closed-down shop on an unsavoury Alley? His wife had grown up in two rooms over a shop on a tiny magical alley in Kentish Town, the only child of a couple who had been refugees from Grindelwald. Didn't she deserve something better now?

And his children – what was wrong with wanting space and a garden for Abraxus and Antigone to play in? Pericles could still remember the shame as a first-year, having to hide from his fellow Slytherins that he had never had a broomstick, because there had never been any space for one in Knockturn.

It was going to be different for his children. 'Too good' was rubbish.

~:~

The owl was sent to Wilkins. And came back with no response. And again. And again. And again. It was getting to be slightly embarrassing, having to write to Avery each time to say he couldn't even get hold of Wilkins, let alone any money out of him. No matter how much the man owed, the least he could do would be reply in some kind. And Avery was being very reasonable, simply going on asking for almost six months now. If Wilkins couldn't pay it all at once, Avery would surely have accepted it in instalments. Even when you weren't the man who was owed the money, Pericles reflected, it was a frustrating affair – particularly when the other letter Avery had sent him to drop off for Egbert Pitt, of Bitter & Pitts Greengrocers on Knockturn Alley, brought a reply within two days.

"I suppose I will just have to leave Wilkins' debt," said Avery when he turned up to collect the letter from Pitt. "Have to write it off as bad debt – I can't go on troubling you like this."

"It's not a trouble," Pericles replied frustratedly. "I'll be going on writing to him any way – the last three weeks I've been needing to get hold of him to buy some more mahogany for _me... _I can't write an order off because I can't get the wood!"

It was another valuable order, too: Augustus Rookwood wanted three-inch mahogany with silver trim; and while the Galleons for 'obliging' Avery made life easier, Pericles still needed to sell chess sets.

He looked at the next sealed letter for Wilkins, after Avery had left. Avery had put a slightly more detailed address this time – what sounded like an inner-city address in Newcastle. Pericles pulled out his quill. He _had_ to see Wilkins for this mahogany:

_Reply, or I shall call next week_

No response.

Fresh letter:

_Reply, or I shall call at the end of the week._

No response.

Fresh letter:

_Reply, or I shall call tomorrow_

~:~

Wilkins' address made the 'Dragon & Warlock' – no, the entire of Knockturn Alley – look salubrious. A stinking, graffiti-scrawled footpath led down the side of a muggle multi-storey car park, to a narrow arched gateway, where the warped wire mesh gate hung by one hinge. The faint 'pop' in Pericles' ears as he passed through showed this was, despite all appearances, a magical area, with its proper muggle-excluding charm wards on the entrance. It was about the only clue, apart from a group of three Healers in their lime green robes standing outside an open front door on the far side of the tiny square.

Pericles stared around. Tall, grey concrete flats, obviously muggle-built, rose on all four sides, leaving only the tiniest piece of sky showing at the top. Rusting metal fire escape staircases led up the outside of the buildings to give access to the upper flats, each with an un-numbered front door. There was nothing to suggest where anybody lived; little to suggest that anybody lived here at all. A pot of scarlet geraniums, looking suspiciously fanged, sat on one ground-floor flat's window ledge; some dingy washing hung over the edge of one of the top-floor balconies; a battered three-legged dustbin muttered to itself by the gate; but there was no sign of any residents. And it did not look like the sort of place to start ringing doorbells.

Two of the Healers had gone back into the flat. Pericles went over to the third: "Excuse me – do you happen to know which of these flats Mr Wilkins lives in?"

_Why did the woman look him up and down?_

"Where Wilkins lives?" she repeated. She was breathing rather heavily, like someone taking wild gulps of fresh air – although that was a vain effort down this concrete well.

"Yes," said Pericles, "Wilkins."

"I'm sorry." The Healer gave him an odd smile, and pointed towards the open door behind her. "Mr Wilkins _lived_ here – but he appears to have – committed suicide last night. One of his neighbours reported the–" she gave a convulsive swallow " –blood coming out under the door this morning. Did you know him?" she added hastily.

_Suicide? Last night?_

"No..." Pericles stared at the dark stain on the doorstep. "I was here to see him on business."

"Then I don't suppose you know his next of kin? No?" The Healer sighed. "Never mind, we'll find it in the end." She brushed her robes down briskly, conjured a pair of gloves, and turned towards the flat. "If you're business, I expect there will be some sort of executors in touch eventually. But I don't think there'll be much business left – from the papers we've looked through so far, the poor man's spent the last six months borrowing hopelessly from the goblins."

**~:~:~**

_How far is St. Helena from a fight in Paris street?_

_I haven't time to tell you now, the men are falling fast,_

_The guns begin to thunder and the drums begin to beat – _

_(If you take the first step, you will take the last!)_


End file.
